


Day 23: Ghost

by ofplanet_earth



Series: 30 days of Barduil [23]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fourth Age, Happy Ending, I'm almost sorry, M/M, Mirkwood, Post-Canon, Post-War of the Ring, Sorry Not Sorry, Third Age, War of the Ring, in the truest sense of the word, oh the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil <i>was</i> afraid. He feared what would become of him, his forest, his people. He found he could not remember what the world had been like before Bard— the bargeman-turned-king, honest and kind even to those who did not deserve it— and so he feared what it would become once he was gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 23: Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tcas0518](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tcas0518).



> so this prompt was a little confusing. I decided to go with my initial understanding of it and focus on the happy ending instead of worrying too much about the details.  
> requested by Anonymous.
> 
> I'm sorry for any errors you might find. this one took a lot longer than I anticipated and it's late.
> 
> PS. this story officially puts me over 40k  
> it's almost over!

“Do not be afraid, my love.” 

“I am not afraid,” Thranduil held Bard’s hand tight against his chest as he sat perched on the edge of the man’s bed. He was afraid. He feared what would become of him, his forest, his people. He found he could not remember what the world had been like before Bard— the bargeman-turned-king, honest and kind even to those who did not deserve it— and so he feared what it would become once he was gone.

And he would leave— was leaving already. Had been leaving him, slowly, for years.

Bard could see the lie in Thranduil’s eyes, he knew, but neither of them commented on it. The years had turned his dark hair grey, etched lines around his eyes and his mouth and turned his bones brittle. But although his smile might have become heavier over the forty years Thranduil had spent with him, it was no less bright. 

Even now he smiled. Though the most skilled elven healers in all of Middle Earth could do no more for him, though he was leaving behind his children and his husband, though he stood at the edge of a cliff with nothing but the black pitch of the unknown before him, his smile shone more brightly than Anor itself. 

“Will you sail without me here to keep you?” Bard was still and eyes were closed but his chest still rose steadily. The chamber was silent for a long moment. 

“No,” Thranduil finally decided. There was evil still in this world, an ever-present darkening at the edges of his thoughts. His fate was bound to Arda and he would see it through until he met his end. Only then would he meet his wife and his kin in Valinor. Finding love again, she would understand. Mourning, she would understand. But leaving her people before his time? Abandoning the forest she loved so dearly to be overrun with orcs? Leaving her son without either of his parents? This, Thranduil did not think she would ever forgive.

“Why?” Thranduil could see how tired Bard was when he opened his eyes— Thranduil felt the weight of his weariness as though it seeped from the stone ceiling above them. 

“I would see that our children are safe. And their children. I would not abandon them to fight the darkness of this world alone.” 

Bard smiled. “Our children.” 

“Your children are as much a part of me as my own son. You know this.”

“Aye. I still love to hear you say it.” Bard’s words ended with a fit of coughing that had hot tears welling in Thranduil’s eyes. At length he spoke again, after Thranduil had offered him water and stretched out atop his quilts beside him. “Have you sent for them?” Bard asked.

“Yes,” Thranduil whispered. Legolas still travelled with the Dunedain and Sigrid Bain and Tilda were engaged in negotiations with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills and He feared they may not make it in time. 

It was said that death was a gift. Thranduil had never seen it as such; content in the knowledge that he would live on as the fortunes of others rose and fell. But even in the halls of Mandos, even amongst the Valar in Valinor, Thranduil’s troubles would be ever present. Just as shadows would always follow the flame, his memories and his grief would stay with him.

Perhaps death was a gift, but only to those to whom it was given. Thranduil nearly wished he could share in it with him. But he was cursed to be the one left behind. Twice now he had been forced to watch as his love had been taken from him; his wife had fallen in battle. Slain by an orc and left in an unmarked grave at the foot of Mount Gundabad. Thranduil did not know what had happened until one of his soldiers brought him the news.  
 Then he had fallen in love with a mortal man. In spite of his wisdom and against his better judgements, his heart had rebelled. And now he sat beside him in his final moments with an eternity stretching out before him. 

“Are you afraid?” Thranduil rested his head against Bard’s shoulder and listened to the rasping sounds of his breath. 

“My mother used to tell me that death was like dreaming,” Bard said. “She’d say that you could imagine it as anything you wanted. I’m not afraid. I’ll see you there ever day. You and the children and Eleanor.” 

Tears welled in Thranduil’s eyes again, squeezing his throat and splintering his voice. “I hope you do, my love. Perhaps you can come visit me in my own dreams.”

☾

Sigrid and Bain and Tilda did arrive in time, after all. Their tears were silent, for Bard’s spirits had been lifted by the sight of his children and he would abide no sign of sorrow or despair. They talked instead of fond memories, of their time spent in the Greenwood and before, when they had lived on the Long Lake.

Bard died much as he lived. With an outpouring of love and without a word of complaint.

☾

The forest was dark— it was some time past midday but the canopy of the trees was dense and the air was thick in Thranduil’s lungs, as if the earth mourned with him. Perhaps it did, at least here in this wood. A fierce wind whipped the trees and their branches clawed at him, gripping his cloak and his hair as he rode slowly past. Guards rode on ahead of him and followed behind. None of them said a word; even the creatures of the forest quieted as they passed by. Wolves could be heard in the distance.

☾

Tilda came to visit more than once. Of all their children, she had perhaps been the most precious to Thranduil. She brought her son when he was grown. Thranduil thought he had seen a ghost.

☾

An evil grew in the south. For a time Thranduil wondered if it was his own sadness that had driven the forest further into darkness, but then Dol Guldur opened its mouth and spat orcs in all directions, cutting down trees and attacking the elves of his guard.

And so he went to war. He threw himself into the centre of the battle, boiling over with a rage so violent he could scarcely believe he’d held it inside himself. He swung his swords until his arms ached and screamed until he saw red. 

Thranduil was nearly surprised to find himself still standing when the battle was over. A river of blood ran along the foothills of his kingdom and traced a path between the trees that led to the ruins of Amon Lanc. The the shadows cleared over Middle Earth, but the Greenwood was ever dark.

☾

Legolas returned home. He had received word of Bard’s passing. He regretted not being able to visit sooner. He told Thranduil of the Council of Elrond, of the One Ring and the Dark Lord who had waged war against all of Middle Earth. Thranduil found himself asking how much time had passed.

Twenty years, Legolas told him. The thought left Thranduil feeling hollow. 

Memories came to him in the space between sleep and awake, where the world was neither dark nor bright and dreams could still hold their form. Sometimes he thought he saw Bard there. When he was awake he ached for company, though even in the midst of a great feast, he still felt alone.

☾

Many of his people had set off for the Grey Havens. The mountain echoed with the absent sounds of laughter and merriment and Thranduil began to wander the empty halls at night. Sometimes a member of his guard would happen upon him. Other times he would walk uninterrupted until he came to stand on a balcony or at the open gates of his kingdom.

He was always surprised to find that the sun had risen over the tops of the trees.

☾

The last of his people had left the Greenwood. Those who had remained in Middle Earth had scattered themselves throughout Rhovanion and the Reunited Kingdoms, as far south as Ithilien and as far west as Amon Sûl. Thranduil had stayed behind. These woods were a part of him, and he a part of them. Where would he go if not among these trees?

He had fleeting memories of green leaves and an abundance of wildlife, bright and fecund in the light of the sun. But the foliage had grown brittle and brown and many of the creatures had sought out more fertile fields over the years.

Long ago had he abandoned the pretence of robes and crowns. Instead he dressed in the greens and browns of the Silvan Elves, his swords at his side and a bow and quiver slung over his shoulders. 

Men wandered into these woods on occasion. Often they had only lost their way— strayed too far from the old Elven Roads or from the tree line in search of supper. This was how Thranduil came to hear of the legends that had spread. They told stories of a nomad who stalked the Mirkwood, preying on innocent children and slaughtering cattle who had wandered into his domain. 

Thranduil laughed from his perch in an old Oak tree. The men on the path below had been nearly as startled by the sound as he was.

☾

It was a late spring day when he came upon a deer in the glade near the foot of the mountain. He spoke to it in hushed tones and held out his hand, a surge of near-forgotten wonder overcoming him as the beast stepped closer.

An arrow flew through the clearing, missing its mark as the deer started and fled, landing deep in the bark of a tree not far from Thranduil’s outstretched arm. In an instant he had drawn his sword and ducked into the cover of the trees. Anger rose hot within him. In the space between one breath and the next he had seen the reappearance and near-extinction of life such that the Greenwood had not seen for millennia. 

He spotted movement not far off— though far enough that he was shocked to realize it was a man who had made the shot. His clumsy footsteps and shallow breaths echoed quietly amongst the trees. There was a time when he would have had a man’s head for hunting so carelessly in his wood. He was tempted to unleash the same punishment now. 

He waited as the cracking of twigs and the rustle of leaves came closer, until the man stepped carelessly into the glade. Thranduil pounced then, rounding on the man and pinning him to a tree with his sword at his throat. The blade was ancient, but it was still as sharp as the day it was forged. 

Thranduil faltered then. Words lodged themselves in his throat— words he could scarcely remember the meanings of. The common tongue of man was crude in his voice, unpracticed and nearly forgotten. 

Memories of Tilda’s son sprang to Thranduil’s mind, of the young man’s likeness to his grandfather. He wondered if this man was another of her descendants. 

“Thranduil” Thranduil’s sword fell to the ground as he stumbled backward. His limbs were weak and his head was light as the man stepped forward to follow him. His voice was bright as he laughed and it called upon a thousand distant memories.

The name was slow to rise in the chaos of his thoughts. Ancient languages of man and elves and even dwarves filtered through his mind as he searched for the right words. “Bard?” His voice shook and his hands began to tremble. “H— how is this possible?” 

“What do you mean?” He smiled and stepped further into the glade. “We come here often enough! What were you thinking, attacking me like that?” 

“Are you… have I… Is this real?” 

“Thranduil… you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Great, gasping breaths scratched at Thranduil’s throat and he sank to his knees in the sparse grass. It was him, just as he was when they’d first met. The grey of his hair was contained to the thin wisps at his temples, his skin was smooth and suntanned and he stood as tall as he had after the battle that had made him king. His expression was light and unburdened by the responsibilities of the crown he’d worn, but it was him.

 _My mother used to tell me that death was like dreaming,_ Bard had said to him. “Am I dead?” He wondered aloud. “Am I dreaming?” 

Bard placed his bow on the ground, the same longbow Thranduil had given him to replace the weapon that had slain Smaug. He knelt before Thranduil, concern drawing his brows together and pressing his lip into a stern line. Thranduil reached out to touch him then, to see if he was real. It was all so vivid— every detail he’d forgotten came rushing back: the smell of fresh water and fresh green grass, the small scar on his chin from falling rubble when Dale was still being rebuilt. 

The rough scratch of his beard against Thranduil’s palm. The way his eyes seemed to grow large and warm when he smiled. “It’s you,”

Bard laughed again, the sound sending shocks through Thranduil’s chest, cracking open with a shuddering sob. “Hey, come now Love. What are you crying for?” Bard’s hands were holding his face, brushing tears from his cheeks and brushing hair back from his eyes. He kissed him then, a simple press of his lips against Thranduil’s— they were chapped and soft and they pulled into a smile at the corners. It was just as Thranduil remembered and it was enough to snap him out of his shock. 

His arms wrapped around Bard’s shoulders, strong and lean and untouched by old age. His fingers were met with the old leather and fur coat Bard had worn as a Bargeman, poorly mended and worn thin but warm enough for the spring weather. 

“I’ve missed you so,” Thranduil rasped. 

“I’ve been gone an hour at most. I saw a deer but it ran off before I could catch it.” 

Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he had died. Perhaps the Valar had given him a miracle, or perhaps he’d simply gone mad. Whatever the reason, Thranduil could not bring himself to care. Not when the calloused pads of Bard’s fingers traced over his cheekbones. Not when he could feel the warmth of his skin through his coat. 

The forest was filled with the sound of Bard’s laughter and his voice speaking Thranduil’s name. The clouds over the Greenwood parted, the trees opened up and Thranduil could feel the sun shining on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> got a fic idea? [send me an ask](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll add it to the list!  
> I like to tag [inspiration](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/30-days-of-barduil).  
> you can keep track of my word count on my [novel page](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ofplanet-earth/novels/30-days-of-barduil) or on my [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/nanowrimo).


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